Four Monkees One Amphibian Bakery

A cryin' too frequent

That night, Peter lay awake, listening to the raindrops pelting against the roof of their bedroom. The blond couldn't get the image of Mike beating Scott Shapiro to a bloody pulp out of his head. The man's body was so mangled and hideous that after the Texan was done with him, he was hardly recognizable. Peter felt sick. His own friend had done that to someone. The more he tried to calm down and fall asleep, the more the image was ingrained into his mind. Over and over again he saw Scott Shapiro's face, stricken with panic as a disgruntled mike brought about his demise.

Every time Peter began to fall asleep, he found himself jolted back to reality with conscious thoughts.He looked over at the peacefully dozing Texan in one of the other beds.

How was Mike sleeping so soundly after committing a murder?

Peter got out of bed. He wasn't sure what he was going to do but he had to distract himself somehow. As he left the room, one of the floorboards squeaked a little too loudly, waking one of the other musicians.

..................

Peter slid down the banister of their spiral staircase. He was expecting it to be 2pm because of how early they went to sleep, but it was actually four in the morning. Man, did he really lay awake in the dark for that long?

He walked over to their small fridge and opened the door. There was barely anything inside, but it wasn't like they ever had money to go shopping. Peter carefully selected some of the few items in the fridge, and got cookin'.

He filled a pot with water, and started to boil it. Then, Peter grabbed a half empty glass of root beer, and mixed it with some sour cream. He waited for the water bubbles to break the surface, and then poured this grotesque mixture into the pot. Peter turned off the stove, and set the pot aside. He got out the cheese grater and started to shred away at a slightly molded block of mozzarella he had found. Next, the blond grabbed the shreds and put them into the filling pot. He got out a wooden spoon, and began to stir the mixture he had made. Peter tasted his creation, and was pleased with it so he poured it into one of the few bowls that appeared clean.

"Ah, nothing like a good cream of root beer soup to get one's mind off the horribly wrong." he said aloud to himself, before slurping up the liquid as fast as he possibly could.

"Ain't that the truth" a voice agreed from the darkness of the pad.

"Who's there?" Peter jumped up, startled.

Micky stepped out from behind the staircase, grinning. "It's just me, man. What're you doing up so early?"

Peter felt embarrassed to have not recognized his band mate's voice. "Uh, i just couldn't sleep. Thinkin' too much i guess" he gave micky a slight, forced smile.

"Huh." micky grinned " that doesn't happen much. Does it?"

" oh, you're too funny" the blond said, sarcastically

"But in all seriousness, you're okay, right?"

Peter contemplated whether or not he should tell the truth. He didn't want to jeopardize Mike's privacy, but maybe he could talk to Micky in a way that didn't expose anything.

Peter walked a bit closer to the fluffy haired boy. " Something.. Horrible happened. Believe me, I'm really shaken from Davy's death: you know I am." Peter looked down at the ground " But that's not what's bothering me right now." he took a deep breath. "I saw.. I saw someone get murdered." Peter could feel himself shaking, it was the first time he had said anything about the incident, and anxiety was pulsing through him.

"Oh my god peter. I'm so sorry that happened." micky looked at him with widened eyes. " do you want to sit down?' he asked

Peter nodded, and the two made their way over to the couch.

As soon as they say down, Peter broke down. He sobbed, and sobbed, harder than he ever had before. Through broken sentences and sniffles, he managed to tell micky, "oh m-m mick *hick* micky it was *sniff* horr *hick* ible." He buried his face in the couch and bunched up it's fabric in his hands.

Peter felt micky's reassuring hand on his shoulder "hey, it's gonna be okay. You can talk to me about it. Or not. Whatever you want, but just know that i'm here for you"

Peter nodded, face still smashed into the couch "thanks micky" he whispered, silently sobbing.

After that, there was no talking. Micky stayed with Peter until he fell asleep a few hours later, and then retired to his own bed. 

(THIS IS NOT A SHIPPING CHAPTER MICKY JUST HAPPENED TO BE AT THE RIGHT PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME) also, sorry it's so serious i just think that more people need to be aware of the sorrow that flugelhorn deaths cause :( RIP scottish scottland poopery gay potato gregory heffley family pasta shapiro